The Search for Supernatural Life
by Hoseki-sama
Summary: An intrepid band of muggles pierces the veil that separates their world from the wizarding one.


"I now call to order this meeting of the Search for Supernatural Life. We have the right to know."

"We have the right to know," the group chanted back. All five of them. Donald North nodded and continued.

"Now, I know we usually begin each meeting by reading the minutes of the last meeting, but unfortunately, Catharine lost them."

Catharine glowered. She was a skinny woman with a pale, pinched face and a shock of thin, frizzy red hair. "I told you, I didn't lose them. Pixies stole the folder," she said, smoothing her cardigan.

"Besides, we have a much more interesting action item which will be the focus of our meeting today." Donald paused for dramatic effect.

"What is it?" asked Brian. Brian was the youngest of them all, only eighteen, and he was a short, stocky boy who was possessed of all the subtlety and finesse of four wild horses.

"It is definite and irrefutable proof that magic-users are alive and well in our world today, and live right beside us, disguised as ordinary folk. They look like us and talk like us, but they have created cracks in our world they use to escape into theirs, where they practice magic and destroy those who find the truth."

"Poppycock," wheezed Beverly, the resident octogenarian. She let out a hacking cough, which shook her stiff white bouffant comically, and continued, "Sorcerers ascended to a higher plane of existence millennia ago. All we can hope to find are remnants of their time here on Earth. How many times have I told you that, Donald..."

"I know, Beverly," Donald said seriously. "But this is not evidence to be cast aside lightly. It's their wizard newspaper, which I found in a bin in London. Dated three days ago. And that's not the worst thing..." he drew from his bag the paper in question, which he handed to Paul, who sat to his immediate left in their circle of folding chairs.

" '_The Daily Prophet_,' " Paul read slowly. "Oh, that's a cute name. '_Wild Dragon Spotted in Scotland._ Late yesterday evening, a dragon, identified as a Greater Scottish Longwing, was spotted over Banton Loch by several Muggles and a witch, Gertrude Ossus. "The Muggles were panicking. You know, screaming, wetting themselves, that sort of thing," said Ossus, 43, a resident of Banton. "I calmed them down a bit- put them to sleep, actually- and contacted the Ministry. It was massive, just so huge, and its wingspan was incredible. It tried to fly away, toward the village, but I held it off for a while before the Ministry came and subdued it. A pack of Obliviators came, too, which I thought was unnecessary- I can do a Memory Charm perfectly well myself, thank you very much- so I—" ' " Paul gasped in horror and threw the paper to the floor. His long, spidery fingers trembled.

"What is it?" Brian asked, half-standing.

Paul shuddered, eyes fixed on the front page. "That picture- that woman, Ossus- she _glared_ at me."

Donald nodded solemnly as the rest of SSL looked on with varying degrees of horror and confusion. "All of the pictures inside do that, too. The people make faces and walk around in an ink-and-paper newspaper. It's magic, plain and simple."

The only member of their little group who hadn't spoken yet chose that moment to do so. "This... this is huge, Dee. It is so huge that I cannot grasp its size conceptually. Do you have any idea how unspeakably enormous this is?" Her name was Vanessa, and she was a chubby thirty-something with greasy brown hair who rarely spoke at meetings, preferring to listen with quiet, smoldering intensity.

"I do." Donald said the words as though they were made of lead and burdening his shoulders. "I didn't know who else to tell, but I couldn't risk calling an emergency meeting in case we're being followed. You all should read this; I checked the normal news sites, by the way, and there's nothing about a dragon in Banton. Nor goblins in banks, but they only got a tiny mention on page six so maybe we wouldn't hear about it anyway..." he trailed off. "I'll get the snacks. Paul, keep reading." He left the room.

Walking briskly down the hall, Donald felt very small, which, as a six-foot-three man of considerable girth, he rarely did. He had read that newspaper- _The Daily Prophet_- at least a dozen times, and remembered how strange it was, how many funny names and bizarre, meaningless references.

Frightening references.

References to murders and some vile cult, the Death Eaters. Muggles- it had taken Donald three readings to realize what _that_ word meant- were referred to, in passing if at all, as nothing more than pests that got in the way, or mildly tragic casualties, or, worst of all, children to have their gazes averted by force if necessary.

Squads of Obliviators were mentioned no fewer than five times, all showing up to somehow deal with nonmagical people. Were they torturers who used magical means to scrub the muggles' minds clean so the wizard government could carry on doing exactly as they pleased? Were they killers, mercenaries hired by the shadowy Ministry to enact bloody revenge on bystanding normals? Perhaps they were powerful mages who wiped out entire cities that had found the truth and rewrote history so those places had _never existed_ so no one would know what had gone down there.

It was times like these Donald hated his vivid imagination. He paused mid-stride and did a U-turn, having completely walked past the teacher's lounge.

SSL meetings were held every month in a classroom at the local high school, at which Catharine worked as the school librarian. The faculty was skeptical (most everyone was skeptical) but permissive, and arranged for the maintenance staff to leave a few doors unlocked on meeting nights.

Donald reached the lounge, headed in, and made a beeline for the fridge, where he had stowed the bowl of fruit salad and plate of homemade peanut butter cookies. On the way back to the room, he tried to focus less on the sinister things the newspaper had glossed over, and more on the thrill of discovering what he had always dreamed of finding.

As a child, Donald had never been athletic, or clever, or artistic. His teachers had liked him because he was quiet and his peers had dismissed him because he was boring. They bullied him sometimes, but there was never anything personal about what they did; he was just the fat kid and they were the pack. Donald didn't resent them for it, since a few good taunts seemed to make them happy. He liked it when he could make others happy, even if he had to cry a little for their sake.

He had dreamed a lot during his childhood, asleep and awake. Dinosaurs first, like all young boys, then robots, then knights, then wizards. If only he could travel back (or forward) in time and build robots or ride dinosaurs or become a knight! But best would be to be told- by some magical creature, like a dragon or a giant- that he was a wizard, and had been a wizard all along, and could leave behind the mundane things of life to make people happy with magic. That particular dream sustained him all through primary school before it deflated, leaving behind a cold, magic-free world.

"Food's here, guys," he said, elbowing his way in and interrupting Paul in the middle of his reading of the recipe for Better Berry Pie, which seemed to demand six hands for everything to get done in the allotted time period. Donald deposited the cookies and salad on a rickety desk and dragged it into the middle of the circle so everyone could dig in. "Let's talk follow-up now. You've got the basic idea, right? So what do we do?"

"Do we have to do anything?" Brian asked hesitantly, spearing a grape with his plastic fork.

"What... of course we do! We're the Search for Supernatural Life! And here we have concrete evidence of magic being used all around us! Of course we have to do something!" Catharine, Paul, and Beverly nodded in agreement, but Vanessa looked unconvinced.

"I dunno. Brian's got a point, guys. We shouldn't let this mess everything up. Can't we just keep having fun and not worry too much about what's going on in the wizarding world?"

Donald began to protest, but Beverly cut him off. Thin arms quivering in anger, she said, "Ducks! Listen to yourselves. This is why we exist. To find truth. And worry about it, too, if worrying is called for. And you want to take this precious piece of evidence we can show the world and ignore it? Stuff it in a bin so we can keep chasing fairies? Shame on you! You've forgotten what this organization is for. If the sorcerers have returned from their magical plane where they live in a socialist utopia, it is our job to greet them as Earthlings- or, in sorcerer language, muggles. Surely they will cure our sick and revive our dying and bless our universe with prosperity forevermore." She nodded sharply and snagged a hunk of honeydew.

"We should get into contact with their magical government," said Catharine firmly. "Get information. Make 'em call off their pixie servants."

Paul shook his head. "Too risky. They'd send... Annihilators. Oblators?"

"Obliviators," Donald offered.

"Right. Them. They'll, um... oblivion us. Make us nothing? Destroy us? Anyway, we shouldn't tip our hands to people who can do that."

Vanessa clucked at them through a mouthful of peanut butter cookie. "Exactly! Obliviators. We're in way over our heads here. It's dangerous. Let's chuck it and pretend it never showed up."

Brian looked mournfully at Vanessa. "Van. It's okay, since you haven't been coming very long, but that's not what I meant in the first place. I just meant they're _magic_. They prolly know we know and are waiting so they can get us and take us down. If we wait they might think we, I dunno, gave up."

"Good idea, Brian." Donald nodded. "But if they know we know, that's all they need to send in the Obliviators, it seems. We should act quickly and catch them off-guard."

"I hope you understand what you're suggesting, Donald," said Beverly, voice quavery. "It certainly sounds to me like you're proposing we storm the gates of the sorcerers' gubernatorial palace."

Vanessa stood suddenly. "I've gotta... toilet break. Be right back." She strode briskly from the room.

As the door clicked shut behind her, Donald let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "Okay. Now that she's gone I can tell you the plan."

Catharine nodded, but Paul frowned. "What do you mean?" he asked.

"I mean, she's a wizard spy. Has been all along. She's probably reporting to her wizard masters now." His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "So we've got to run. Obliviators move fast. Everyone get in their car-"

"I took the bus," interrupted Brian.

"Then get in Paul's car- and drive for London. That's where I found the paper. We'll meet at this corner," he rattled off an address, "and I can take you where I think we can get down there."

"Down where?" asked Beverly.

"Down to the Ministry of Magic. We have the right to know."

"We have the right to know," the group chorused back. They stood and dispersed, half-running and half-sneaking, most unsure of how to handle the sudden knowledge that there was a traitor in their midst. Donald took a moment to re-cover the salad and cookies with plastic wrap and pick them up—there was no sense in wasting food—before turning off the lights and scuttling out the door.

For a few long minutes, the room was silent save the whir of the air conditioner. Then the door opened with a creak, and Vanessa was there. "Guys?" she asked the empty room tentatively, taking a few steps in and turning on the light. "...Guys?"

"Dammit!" she swore, and plunged a hand into the pocket of her sweatshirt, pulling out a length of wood. "Dammit dammit dammit!" She pointed the stick at a chair and shouted a sharp word; the chair exploded, sending sharp fragments of wood into the walls and ceiling. Then- eyes almost crossing in rage- she vanished with a loud _crack_.

A small plume of smoke drifted from the warped metal frame of the chair, a promise of things to come.

Donald was the first to arrive at the corner he had specified. Rocking back and forth, he grew more and more nervous and paranoid as the minutes dragged on, pulling the city into mid-evening darkness.

Not liking the idea of taking on an entire government of wizards unarmed, Donald had taken from his glove compartment the short wood rod one of his more nervous ex-boyfriends had kept there for protection from thugs. Though Donald was not trained at all in stick fighting, it was an enormous comfort to have something solid in his hands to fiddle with as he loitered.

Fortunately, Paul and Brian were not far behind him. The trio made nervous and entirely beside the point conversation while they waited. Catherine arrived next, then Beverly. Donald noticed that the two women had brought their purses along, but he knew he shouldn't be surprised; he had never seen Catherine without a tent-sized bag of tricks somewhere in her vicinity, and Beverly's trademark lavender handbag was almost an extension of her elbow.

"How are we getting in?" Catharine asked.

"There was a reference in that newspaper to the 'visitor's entrance' to the 'Ministry of Magic,' " explained Donald. "It broke, I guess, because there was a paragraph or two on how it was fixed now and regular traffic could continue as normal. Anyway, they included a little picture. Get this: it's this absurd telephone booth right next to my old favorite pub. I must have gone by it a thousand times and never thought to look..." He bit his lip slightly at the thought. What else could he have missed, busy as he inevitably always was with the business of living?

"Take us there, then!" urged Beverly, after a short silence. Donald turned and led the way, hesitant at first, but with growing confidence as his feet remembered the route. He used to work in London, pushing papers for a corporation that couldn't have cared less whether he lived or died. The job had driven him to drink on more than one occasion. It did not make Donald happy to think of those days.

The walk was short; the corner Donald has selected was fairly close to the booth, but (hopefully) not so close as to arouse suspicions in any magical watchers. They barely managed to wedge themselves all in before Donald realized he didn't know how to get in, and admitted as much to the group.

"Try, uh, entering a number sequence into the phone. Like the Fibonacci," suggested Paul. Donald tried it, contorting his arm painfully to dial 112358 into the telephone apparatus. Nothing happened.

"E?" suggested Catharine after a moment. "It's a terribly important number."

"Do you remember e?" asked Donald, and dialed 27182818 as she recited it hesitantly. Nothing happened.

They tried a few more, from the first several prime numbers to the square root of pi, all to no avail. As the flow of ideas stopped, Beverly spoke up. "Well, if numbers don't work, why not words?"

"Words?" Donald asked, but Brian's face lit up.

"Of course!" the teen said excitedly. "Like in TV ads, where they use the phone number to spell out something easy to remember. Try 'wizard' or something."

"Oh, I see." Slowly, Donald dialed 949273. Nothing happened. Brainstorming, they tried 'witch' (94824,) 'ministry' (64647879,) and finally, scraping the bottom of the barrel, 'magic' (62442.)

It was at that point that something happened.

"Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. Please state your name and business," said a cool female voice. The group looked at each other, half terrified out of their wits and half thrilled beyond belief. Donald had to think; did he give his real name? Did he make up plausible-sounding business? A sudden rush of giddiness—he was in an _actual wizard elevator_ communicating with an _actual wizard spell_—caused him to throw caution to the winds.

"Donald North, along with Catharine Knowles, Brian MacLean, Beverly Whitwell, and Paul Cooper, here exercising our right to know," he said, which met murmurs of general approval from his companions.

"Thank you," the voice said in reply. "Visitors, please take the badges and attach them to the front of your robes."

Five silvery little badges fell out of the metal chute that, on a mundane telephone, would have provided change. Donald scooped them up and passed them around, proudly pinning his own on the left breast of his shirt. It read 'Donald North: Grassroots Activism.'

The other followed suit as the voice continued. "Visitor to the Ministry, you are required to submit to a search and present your wand for registration at the security desk, which is located at the far end of the Atrium."

They were silent as the floor of the booth rumbled and descended. Donald could hardly think through his excitement. Even more undeniable than the newspaper, even more undeniable than the voice, he was _personally visiting the center of the wizards' power._ It was his childhood dreams coming true and covered in fudge to boot.

As they passed the ceiling of the underground chamber, Donald actually gasped as the Ministry came into view.

It was a long and sumptuous hall, lined on both sides with fireplaces from which men and women in robes emerged in whooshes of flame. The ceiling—at which Brian was staring open-mouthed—was a rich blue in which strange golden symbols spun and moved in purposeful but apparently random ways. In the middle of the hall was a fountain, which featured two human figures and a number of mythical ones, all seemingly made out of gold.

The group was ignored for a moment as they piled out of the booth and gaped around them in awe, but their out-of-place garb and obvious ignorance of what to do next slowly attracted glances and whispers. After a long minute, a tall, imposing wizard with a crew cut and goatee approached them. "What is your business here?" he asked bluntly, one hand in his pocket.

"Well, uh, we wanted to, you know, see the Ministry," said Donald, after a moment. "But we couldn't find a tour schedule. I guess you don't make them available to us non-magical folk? So we kind of came on our own. It's really lovely, and I do mean that in all seriousness, you've got some great stuff going on here..." he became aware that he was rambling and shut up.

The wizard looked at him and sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Merlin. Muggles in the Ministry." He drew a length of wood from his pocket and waved it in the air a little before touching the tip to his skull and closing his eyes for a moment.

"What are you doing?" demanded Beverly with a sudden surge of temper. "What's that stick for? This is hardly an appropriate way to treat guests!"

"You aren't guests, you're muggles," corrected the wizard, putting his wand back in his pocket.

Paul opened his mouth to object, but was cut off by another wizard, this one short and bulky. "What's all this about, Zimmer?" he asked, looking over the band. "Are they...?"

"Muggles, yes," the wizard named Zimmer said. "I've called the Obliviators, but they might need more than standard wipes. I thought there were safeguards against this kind of nonsense."

The other wizard shrugged unconcernedly. "Safeguards fail. I've always said the visitor's entrance was too open, but no one listens to me, do they?"

"Oblators..." hissed Catharine. She turned to Donald. "They won't listen to us, you see? They'll keep us in the dark forever so their danged pixies can destroy our lives."

Beverly nodded sharply. "These are hardly the enlightened sorcerers I envisioned, Donald. They're treating us like pests, not people. Do set them straight, won't you?"

Donald swallowed, hard, and stepped toward the chatting pair of wizards. "Gentlemen!" he said, somewhat more loudly than he had intended. "Let's be civilized here. Our organization has recently come upon information that allowed us to deduce your existence, which obviously has been deliberately concealed from us for some time for purpose or purposes unknown. We would like, as representatives of the non-wizarding population, to meet with your leader-"

"Minister," interjected Paul helpfully.

"Thank you, your Minister, and perhaps renegotiate this arrangement of deception. I feel we have a great deal to offer each other and could perhaps benefit from a reexamination of the current situation." Donald ended his speech with a short bow. Brian and Beverly applauded.

The wizards—Zimmer and not-Zimmer—stared blankly at him. A small crowd had gathered at some point, and was talking among itself in low voices. Donald hoped desperately that no one could tell he was sweating buckets.

Not-Zimmer rolled his eyes. "I've heard of centaur-rights activists, but this is new. Listen, I'm late for a meeting. If you see him, tell Rogers I need his signature on my amendment as soon as possible."

"Sure, sure." Zimmer nodded. "I'll deal with this. See you after work?"

His friend nodded and jogged off. Zimmer clicked his tongue impatiently, but made no move to respond to Donald's speech.

Donald shifted slightly. "Ah, excuse me? Mister... Zimmer, was it? I'd appreciate not being ignored. This is an important matter."

"I know you're ignorant, but please stop being dense as well," the wizard snapped. "There will be no 'renegotiation–' who gave you that ridiculous idea? And as for the Minister, I very much doubt he will have any desire to meet a gang of trespassing muggles."

Finally Paul, trembling with fear and anger, stepped forward. "You have no right to oblivion us!"

The wizard Zimmer, along with a few of the remaining bystanders, chuckled. "We have every right. Once the squad gets here, I mean. What's taking them so long?" Shrugs from the assembled wizards.

"No, you don't!" Paul's face was red with that combination of embarrassment and rage. "These are modern times! Either you govern us—in which case we have the right to select you democratically—or you do not, in which case your reign of terror does not apply to us! Do any of you remember elections for the magical government?"

The women and Brian shook their heads. Donald placed a steadying hand on Paul's shoulder. "Easy," he murmured. "You've made your point."

Finally, Zimmer addressed them properly. "Look, magical secrecy is something that's been in international magical law since the seventeenth century, for a lot of very good reasons. Even if it were a good idea to do away with the Statute of Secrecy, we couldn't without a huge political kerfuffle in the International Confederation of Wizards. So pipe down and wait."

This time it was Donald's turn to go red with fury. "You refuse to listen to us because to act as we propose would mean _politics_?" he said, a good deal more loudly than he intended. "You aren't even addressing the content of our objections! What are these reasons, that are so powerful?"

One of the witches, a middle-aged woman with graying brown hair in a bob, stepped forward. "I'll talk to them, Adam," she offered kindly.

He huffed slightly. "Thank Merlin. They were going to drive me insane. I leave them in your capable hands." With a wave of his hand, Adam Zimmer swept off.

The witch smiled kindly. "I'm Harriet Hargrove, Donald. I work in the Improper Use of Magic Office here at the Ministry."

Donald was about to ask how she knew his name, but remembered he was wearing his name badge and felt a little foolish. "Nice to meet you, Harriet. What use of magic could be more improper than manipulating innocent people?"

She chuckled a bit, but not in a mean way. "Good question, Donald. But the Statute of Secrecy is very important to us. Oh—how did you know how to get here?"

The question was calculatedly innocent. Donald made up a lie on the spot. "I was at the pub with this bloke, and I guess he had a bit too much too drink, because he started going on about wizards and witches and so on. Mentioned how to get in here, too." He shrugged. The SSL exchanged glances behind him.

"Really," Harriet raised an eyebrow. "Well, there are a few muggles who know about the wizarding world. Parents and siblings of muggle-born witches and wizards, mostly. A few high-ranking officials in your government. I suppose someone's lips were too loose.

"Anyway. The Statute. It was written around 1689. Those were dark days, Donald; wizards faced a lot of persecution, and sometimes magic wasn't enough to protect them. The muggle royalty at the time refused to extend legal protection to magical folk, so we went underground."

"That might have been justified then," objected Donald. "Three hundred odd years ago? Absolutely the muggle world was a dark and hateful place. But we've matured. It's unfair to judge us based on our great-great-ancestors' ignorance."

"That's not all," Harriet said sadly. "Muggles would demand that wizards teach them magic. They couldn't understand that it's impossible if you're not born with the talent. Do you think people don't still want to have magic?"

"Of course they do," said Donald. "But there are options now. People aren't miserable peasants without magic—we can make medicine, and planes, and, I don't know, plastics, all without supernatural powers!"

It was at this point that Brian interrupted. "You make potions, right?" he said quietly. Harriet nodded. "I thought so. Do you use magic to brew them?" Donald breathed a low '_oh_,' of understanding.

"I... suppose not," Harriet said. "What are you suggesting?"

Brian shrugged and looked away. "Just that you're keeping more away from us than spellcasting. I guess."

"Which brings us to the most important reason: muggles always want magical solutions to their problems. They want controlled weather and magically provided food and water and..."

Her list went on, but Donald almost couldn't hear her over the ringing in his ears. "Hang on, hang on," he said, interrupting the witch. "You can make food appear?"

"Yes, of course. Although it's much better when a person prepares it."

"And you can, just as an example, create wind?"

"Sure. Most weather short of a hurricane is manageable to a sufficiently skilled witch."

Donald was silent for a long moment. Paul and Beverly, having followed his reasoning to its inevitable conclusion, wore serious expressions; Brian and Catharine just stared confusedly at their leader.

He swallowed hard. "There's... there're a lot of problems out there. Starvation. Homelessness. Energy crises, overpopulation... Given time, we can sort that all out, but _right now_, so many people are suffering..."

Harriet's expression was understanding. "You want us to swoop in and fix everything. But can't you see ? Once we fix one problem, there's another, and another, and another after that; you're giving us an endless series of tasks because we're the lucky ones! Muggle problems need muggle solutions."

As dimly aware of his surroundings as Donald was in that moment, vague shouts began to pierce his haze. "I guess you don't have wizard Spider-Man?" he said, mostly to himself.

Catharine shook his arm roughly. "Donald! The oblators are here! And Vanessa brought them! Donald!" But he continued to stare dully at the floor, brain working in overdrive.

"Of course no one has a right to tell you what to do with your powers, but isn't there some middle ground?"

"Oh for heaven's sake." Catharine plunged a bony hand into her purse and withdrew a compact semi-automatic pistol from some secret pocket therein. Taking aim at Vanessa—and keeping an eye of the squad of wizards just behind her—she bellowed, "EVERYONE ON THE FLOOR, NOW!"

Silence. Everyone stared at her—the wizards in confusion, the SSL (excluding Donald) in horror. "I mean it!" she snapped. "I will not be oblated! Neither will any of us! So get on the floor and we'll leave quietly, okay?"

Behind the group, a young wizard drew his wand and aimed it at Catharine. "Stupefy," he said quietly, and her finger froze on the trigger, along with the rest of her. Paul moaned and sat down on the floor, hard; Brain cast about wildly for the cause of Catharine's stupefaction, while Beverly just stared accusingly at Vanessa.

"Starving children don't victimize, they're just themselves victims... I thought it was that people couldn't help, but that's not true any more..."

Vanessa spoke a few words to the senior Obliviator of the squad, and they prepared their wands for the memory charm.

Donald looked up at Harriet plaintively. "But... you don't _want_ to help?"

If Donald's breaking heart had made a sound, it would have been a stiff, professional '_Obliviate_.'


End file.
